Chapter 23

Hello.

I’m up here.

Third floor, corner window. Peeking between shutter slats. I like you in my yard, Sam, doing your detective thing. What a prowler you are. There’s nothing in the garage. I moved Jensen’s Rover to a safe place. I don’t like those things—too big and bulky for me. It’ll never be found, though. You can talk to my neighbors, but they don’t know much. I move at different hours. I’m a mystery in my neighborhood, I think. I’d love to knock on the window and wave and invite you in. I am too bold. But wouldn’t that be something? We could play husband and wife, sitting in the kitchen, cutting vegetables, drinking wine, talking about work—little things that fill so much space over time. I could show you all I want to do with the house.

Would you like that, Sam? To know me? Not the me you came for. But the real me. I called John. He said you stopped by. I don’t know where you got my name. I’m a bit angry about that, but it’s not your fault. You’re doing your job. It’s changed the game, though. We were to meet as strangers in your Little Easy bar. I was to walk in and you’d buy me a drink, and then another. Lenny would tell us stories, and I would seduce you and walk you through the city night pointing out the architecture, frozen faces and gargoyles in the dark. I like you in my yard, Sam. Did I say that? I’ve been agitated, you know. So many things running together—the whole Jensen affair. The wimpiest of the three, but still a chore. A sad little broken man. John said you saw my library sketches. Aren’t they lovely? It will be brilliant. It’s been a long time since I designed anything like that. I’m getting back to myself, I guess—who I was before, you know. Maybe the doing away with them has brought me back, although I was here all along. Going through the motions, perhaps. No more than that. I can’t explain. But I do feel the stirring of resurrection. A big word, I know. Some things are big. We can feel them. Like the city, I suppose. Ravaged things come back. How about that tennis picture? If you could have seen me then! So fast and strong. Oh, Sam, I could cover a court. I loved the singularity of it and of being alone between those painted lines, battling. I still play in Griffith Park. Not as much as I’d like to, though. I’d love to play tennis with you. Wouldn’t that be normal, like couples do? What are you looking at down there? Studying my house. Thinking of me. On the video. In the picture. You have the face now, Sam. You know the face behind the mask. I am complete.

But where am I? The high desert? No. I’m here, Sam, but you can’t see. You’re moving now, through my grass. It needs to be cut; the boy comes next week. You’re on the side of the house now, walking to the front. I’m racing across the hall to my bedroom window. Calm. I must be calm. Breathe. It’s dark now. Night has fallen. I peek under a slat. You turn and give my house one last look. You walk to your car. Ragged old Porsche. It’s you, Sam. That car is you. But still, fix the muffler. Jeez. Headlights on. Is that Sibelius I hear? Oh, I do love the symphony. It doesn’t seem that long ago, the night Gallagher took his last breath—a slightly melodramatic way to put it, but hey, I was there. What a gasp, the final one. It was just a few hours after the concert at Disney Hall. Remember? Dudamel and Mahler. I walked past you and smelled your witch hazel and scotch. You were in your Macy’s blazer, my little detective dressed up for the night with one of your four season tickets. You didn’t see me. Just like now. That has to change, doesn’t it? You have to see me. In the flesh. Soon. I’m reworking the plan. We will get together before I leave. I’m going on a trip. I feel I must, given the circumstances (ha-ha) I find myself in. I’m traveling to a place I’ve always wanted to go. Maybe I’ll tell you about it, but if I do, you know what that means. The game is changing. Your pretty red taillights leave my street.

It’s so quiet in my house.